


On Holiday in Soft Jumpers

by 221b_careful_what_you_wish_for



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: A few deep insights, Awkward Flirting, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, John's active imagination, M/M, Massage, Mutual Pining, Snogging, The softer side of Sherlock, Vacation, Wool Jumpers, inconvenient erections
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-13 15:27:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13573461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for/pseuds/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for
Summary: When a case in the Alps turns into an impromptu holiday, Sherlock and John slowly let their guard down, relaxing with drinks, massages, and soft jumpers, finally confessing their romantic feelings for each other.(Written for the Sherlock Challenge, January 2018: "Change" and for the photo edits I made below that I originally posted on my Tumblr. I had to write a little something for a backstory.)





	On Holiday in Soft Jumpers

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Выходные в тёплых джемперах](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17195192) by [Little_Unicorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Unicorn/pseuds/Little_Unicorn)



The case had sounded intriguing enough, a series of thefts at one of the poshest ski resorts in the French Alps, the thief not targeting jewels but the laptops of wealthy guests in order to steal valuable financial data. John had looked forward to a week of sun and snow and invigorating mountain air, packing several wool jumpers and his heaviest boots.

Disappointingly, Sherlock wrapped up the case sooner than expected, honing in on the thief -- a ski instructor who, Sherlock discovered, was actually a career criminal with ties to the Russian mafia -- within two days. After a dramatic confrontation in the chalet lobby, the thief threw a few desperate punches at Sherlock and attempted to flee. John, acting on instinct, tackled the man and the authorities were called in.

It had happened so quickly that John still didn't have all the details filled in.

“So how did you know it was him?” John finally asked over a post-case drink in the bar.

“Easy. The spider tattoo on his shoulder.”

“Sorry?”

“Russian prison tattoos. A spider on the right shoulder signifies a thief. That, and he did have an unusual number of laptops hidden in his room.”

John looked at him over his beer. Sherlock was always doing things he didn’t know about. “And how did you get into his room?”

“It’s not so hard to get into a room,” Sherlock answered airily, taking another sip of his wine.

“When exactly did you do that?”

“Late last night.”

John gazed at him, all slim dark suit and coiffed hair, his eyes still electric with adrenaline. What he really wanted to know was how Sherlock had gotten a glimpse of the man’s bare shoulder. “And the tattoo? How’d you know that was there?”

Sherlock met his gaze evenly. “Like I said. It’s not so hard to get into a room.”

John felt his face flush, not sure how much to read into Sherlock’s comment. Had he posed as a room service waiter? Stolen a key card and hidden in the closet, watching as the man undressed? Or had he expertly _seduced_ him?

John quickly swallowed another mouthful of beer, trying to wash away the image of Sherlock and the thief’s naked bodies, hard and sinewy, Sherlock’s long fingers tracing down the inky legs of the spider, memorizing every line as evidence.

Sherlock could easily seduce men and women, rolling out that silky rumble of a voice, flashing those cheekbones. He’d watched him do it countless times, flattering and toying with some poor receptionist or assistant. John wondered how far he would take the ruse, if Sherlock ever actually slept with someone to get information.

Which spiraled into further thoughts of what Sherlock would be like in bed… Dominant and efficient? Slow and silent? Rough and loud? It probably depended on the part he was playing, how he was working his mark. Looking at Sherlock now, aloof, carefully sculpted in sleek lines and hard angles, the one thing John could not imagine him being was soft and vulnerable in bed.

John wiped his mouth, a nervous habit, determined to resist his wandering thoughts. “Right… So are we heading back to London tomorrow, then?”

Sherlock lifted his shoulders in an elegant shrug. “The manager offered several more days of accomodation at no cost. I don’t see why we shouldn’t make a little holiday out of it.”

John blinked in surprise. “A holiday? Really?”

“Yes, John. Even I could use a little vacation now and then.” Sherlock paused. “Unless you have a pressing reason to get back?”

“No, nothing.”

“Then we’ll stay. A little skiing, good food, a proper sauna and massage…”

John’s imagination lingered on the word massage, hovered over the thought of a steamy sauna, Sherlock wrapped in nothing but a towel, chest and legs glistening with sweat.

“Sounds relaxing,” John choked out, signaling the waiter for another beer.

“You alright?” Sherlock peered at him more closely.

“Just really… thirsty,” John mumbled. _Get a grip,_ he hissed at himself.

That night, John lay in his bed, unable to sleep, his mind drifting back to Sherlock and the ski instructor/thief. It wasn't the first time he'd wondered about the sexual habits of Sherlock Holmes. He thought about it far too often, in fact. Some days he was convinced that ice ran through Sherlock's veins, no human emotions or urges swaying him from his work. Other times he swore he glimpsed a flicker of heat in his eyes, a spark that hinted at a passion simmering beneath his cool exterior.

If Sherlock’s acting skills were convincing enough to lure someone to their bedroom, surely he must be able to tap into some reservoir of lust and desire? Or had he simply watched enough YouTube videos to fake it?

He knew Sherlock visited porn sites -- they were in the browser history on John's laptop, sites he himself had not looked up. Men on men, perfectly waxed and toned, some with elaborate tattoos. Maybe Sherlock liked tattoos...

John didn't know if Sherlock had left the trail of porn as a joke, or research, or some sort of test that he didn't know how to respond to. John simply never mentioned it, only sneaking long looks at the clips now and then, becoming engrossed in the animal beauty of two (sometimes three) hot men fucking their brains out on a giant bed or leather sofa.

John turned onto his other side, trying to find a comfortable position. It wasn't easy living with Sherlock and holding a torch for him all these years, but he wouldn't have it any other way. He loved Sherlock -- loved him as a friend and companion -- but also as something more, unspoken, unrequited. It pained him, knowing Sherlock didn't reciprocate such feelings, that he had no apparent use for sentiment or romantic relationships, but Sherlock, for good or bad, was where his heart had landed.

He had no claim on Sherlock, and so it wasn't his business who he did or didn't sleep with or why, or what porn he watched (although Sherlock really could do that on his own laptop, couldn't he?), and he should just be grateful that he was getting to spend an all-expenses-paid holiday with the one person in the world he most enjoyed being with. They were together and that was all that mattered.

 

***************************

Sherlock appeared at breakfast freshly showered and dressed in a smart black suit paired with a dark blue shirt. John had pulled on an ivory-colored cable knit jumper over black jeans that he rolled up just above his boots.

Next to Sherlock, he felt a little underdressed. Sherlock looked impeccable, turning heads as he glided through the breakfast room to their table. Of course, John had seen him slouching around the flat in his pajamas and dressing gown, or looking much rougher, strung out, unshaven, or laid up in a hospital bed, pale and weak. No matter the circumstances, Sherlock was always the most handsome -- no, _beautiful_ \-- person he'd ever met.

In the mirror that morning, John had noticed the silver threaded through his hair, the lines along his forehead, the bags under his eyes. He sighed, running a hand through his hair. Nothing you could do about the passing years. He elected to forego shaving, embracing the holiday spirit with a scruffy beard.

They ordered breakfast and sipped at strong coffee, John stealing glances at Sherlock. His gaze was roving around the room, settling briefly on one table then moving to another. Sherlock tapped his fingers on his coffee cup as he contemplated.

“Notice something?” John asked, buttering a hot roll that had just arrived on the table, expecting to hear about three affairs and one bankruptcy that Sherlock had just deduced.

“I'm going shopping this morning.”

John did a little double-take. “Okay. No skiiing?”

“Can't ski in this.” He waved a hand toward his suit.

“You didn't pack something more… casual?”

Sherlock fixed John with a droll gaze. “Really, John. Do I own anything ‘casual’?”

“You had a pair of jeans once.”

“Did l? Oh yes, ripped the knees out on that kidnapping case... pity.” Sherlock plucked a roll from the basket. “What will you do this morning?”

“I might go into town with you, find a bookstore, pick up a new novel to read.”

They chatted about insignificant things until their food arrived, then agreed on a meeting time to share a ride into the village. They parted ways along the main street, John heading to a bookstore he'd noticed when they first arrived, leaving Sherlock to his errands.

John returned to the resort an hour later with a new book and settled near the crackling fire to read, tuning out the chatter of other guests, losing track of time. He ate a light lunch and dove back into reading, finally brought back to reality by his phone vibrating in his front pocket. He pulled it out and read the text from Sherlock.

_Booked you a massage. Starts in 10 minutes. Don't be late._

After a twinge of irritation, John decided to go. His neck was a little tight, his back a bit stiff after sitting so long. He made his way to the spa in the lower level of the resort and was whisked off to a changing room that contained a fluffy white dressing gown.

“Remove everything, please,” the attendant directed with a pleasant smile. “I'll take you to the room when you're ready.”

John quickly undressed and folded his clothes into a neat stack, then slipped on the bathrobe. Barefoot, he followed the attendant as she escorted him to a warm, dimly lit room that smelled of sandalwood. As his eyes adjusted, he was shocked to see not one, but two massage tables, one already occupied by a very familiar lanky form, a sheet draped over a perfect arse.

A tall blonde man with muscular arms was kneading Sherlock's back, the skin shining with oil. John had to tear his gaze away when a second masseuse stepped forward to introduce herself and asked him several questions about any pain he was having and areas he'd like her to concentrate on.

Distracted, John answered as best as he could, his eyes constantly drawn to the masseur’s fingers pressing into Sherlock's flesh, every curve and slope of his body illuminated like a Renaissance painting.

“Don't forget your shoulder.” Sherlock's voice was muffled, his face lowered through the padded opening of the massage table.

“Oh, right.” John was surprised, and a little flattered, that Sherlock would offer the helpful reminder, his fingers going to the bullet scar. “I have an old injury. It can still be a bit sensitive.”

He finally climbed onto the table, the masseuse draping a sheet over his hips and starting on his shoulders. “You're very tense,” she observed, her thumbs sinking into his muscles.

Of course he was tense, practically naked in the same room with Sherlock, oiled up, getting a couple’s massage, for Christ’s sake.

He tried to concentrate on breathing slowly, listening to the soft New Age music, willing the tension to drain from his shoulders. But then his ears caught the suggestive sound of Sherlock's breath hitching as the masseur worked on a painful knot, followed by a low grunt, a release of breath.

John's mind conjured up titillating images based on the noises: Sherlock in front of him on all fours, John’s hands caressing the pale skin of Sherlock’s round arse, drinking in the dip of his spine, the lock of dark hair coiled at his nape as he pushed the tip of his cock into that pink, eager hole…

Sherlock grunted again, an utterance of pleasurable pain. Oh God, he could picture Sherlock's hips tilting back, thighs quivering, slowly taking in more rock-hard cock -- John squeezed his eyes shut, cutting of the enticingly explicit fantasy. The rush of blood to his groin made him bite his lip, trying to keep his erection at bay.

“Too hard?” the masseuse asked.

“Er --” John panicked for a moment, then realized she was referring to the pressure of her hands. “No, um, it's fine.”

He swallowed, forcing himself to count the tiny tiles on the floor, blocking out Sherlock's groans and sighs, ignoring his own involuntary grunts and exhalations. Why, he wondered, did Sherlock book their massages together? Maybe they were the only openings the spa had left for the day. Still, this was unexpectedly intimate, the low light, soft music, glowing candles...

It didn’t mean anything, John told himself sternly, just enjoy it. It's just two friends getting a massage. Sherlock never follows convention, and he probably didn’t even realize how romantic this might appear, so just shut up and relax.

John finally settled his scattered thoughts and focused on the strong hands of the masseuse. It felt good being touched. It had been a long time since he'd been physically close with anyone. Somewhere along the way he'd stopped dating, realigning his life to match Sherlock’s. It happened so gradually that he hadn't really noticed how much he'd changed since he moved in with Sherlock.

He pondered this until the massage ended. The masseuse draped the bathrobe around his shoulders and he thanked her, then headed for the changing room, feeling loose and pleasantly sore. Sherlock had finished a few minutes earlier and was presumably changing as well.

John dressed slowly, his mood much calmer. He checked his appearance once more in the mirror, pausing a moment to study his reflection. He looked good, more relaxed than this morning. For some reason, he winked cheekily at himself.

“Idiot,” he chided himself with a little smile.

He stepped back into the hallway, checking for Sherlock. Not finding him, John wandered back toward the lobby, passing a juice bar along the way. He glanced in, seeing a smattering of couples and singles at the tables, a woman fussing over a tiny dog in her lap, a tallish bloke in dark jeans and cream-colored jumper standing at the bar.

Something about the man’s stance caught his eye, making John pause. Then his mouth fell open. He walked haltingly toward the bar, staring, needing to be sure.

The man was scowling at a menu, then looked up. _“Kale?”_ he sneered incredulously. “Why the hell would anyone want to drink kale?”

John continued to stare, taking in the sight of Sherlock in jeans and a heavy knitted jumper, the soft folds of the turtleneck framing his sharp jaw, the light color of the yarn contrasting with his dark hair that had been significantly shorn. He looked so different, and still so staggeringly attractive.

“You — you got your hair cut,” John stammered.

Sherlock touched the back of his head as if self-conscious. “Yes, well, bit shorter than I asked for.”

John gazed at him. “It looks good.” He dragged his eyes down his frame. “You actually bought jeans.”

“Something more casual.” There was a long pause and he raised a questioning eyebrow at John’s unabashed stare.

“Sorry — it’s just, I’ve never seen you like this,” John apologized. “It’s quite a change.”

“Really? I thought it might look a tad familiar.” The corner of Sherlock’s mouth lifted in a slight smile.

It was John’s turn to raise a quizzical eyebrow. In reply, Sherlock switched on his phone and started scrolling.

“When I went shopping, I told the clerk I was looking for something like this.” Sherlock passed his phone over to John.

John glanced at the screen and found he was looking at a candid snapshot of himself. Sherlock must have taken the photo of him wearing the ivory jumper on the sly this morning.

John’s eyes widened. “ _You_ took fashion advice from _me?”_

Sherlock shrugged and slipped his phone back into his pocket. “You have a certain… rugged style that seems appropriate for the setting.”

They smiled at each other and leaned against the bar, their gaze interrupted by the server asking what they’d like. John ordered a juice with carrot, apple, and ginger, and Sherlock reluctantly did the same.

They found a corner table with an impressive view of the mountains and sat down.

“How was your massage?” Sherlock asked, sniffing suspiciously at his drink.

“Good. Really good. Yours?”

“Karl has excellent technique.”

“Yeah, I gathered that.” John sipped at his juice, wincing at the gingery burn.

Sherlock was looking at him evenly. “Meaning what?”

“Well, you know, you were…” John couldn’t bring himself to say _groaning_. “It sounded like he was really working on some of your kinks.” _Oh God, bad choice of words._ “In your back. The muscles, I mean.” He took a gulp of juice.

Amusement flickered across Sherlock’s face. “Interesting word, kink. It can mean a curl, a quirk, or a cramp.” His voice lowered an octave. “Or an unconventional sexual fantasy or behavior.”

John swallowed, waiting on tenterhooks for what Sherlock would say next.

But Sherlock simply leaned back in his chair and sipped at his drink, shifting his gaze to the window.

John felt a strange sense of disappointment, as if a scoop of ice cream he’d been looking forward to licking had suddenly dropped to the floor. But then another thought came to him. John stared at his nearly empty glass, slowly beginning to piece together a pattern out of Sherlock’s behavior.

Sherlock was the one who had suggested they go on holiday for a few extra days. He’d arranged the dual massage, secretly took a photo of him this morning, praised his clothing style.

Had he intentionally been trying to pique John’s interest, dropping that innuendo about the ski instructor’s room and moaning under the masseur’s hands? Leaving a trail of porn sites, venturing into the subject of kinks?

Was he — _flirting?_ Had Sherlock been sending signals all along, trying to nudge him with hint after hint, only to be met with utter cluelessness?

John covered his mouth, stunned at the possibility of Sherlock’s motives and his own stupidity. He chewed on his thumbnail, glancing at Sherlock again. His eyes were still on the window, his expression neutral.

So assuming it was flirting, his turn to reciprocate was long overdue. John rubbed his forehead in agitation. How could he have been so thick? Usually he was so good at this sort of thing — the little games of seduction. He just hadn’t been receptive to it, thinking there was never a chance…

John took a deep breath. Okay. Clean slate. He could do this. Just make a simple overture, nothing too obvious, just test the waters. He casually picked up his phone and fiddled with it, then flicked it over to the camera, bringing Sherlock into focus.

Sherlock glanced over at him. “What are you doing?”

“Taking your picture.”

“Why?”

“Souvenir. Might never see you in a jumper again.” John pressed the button, capturing the moment. He paused, admiring the photo: Sherlock, clear eyed, stared boldly into the lens, yet held something back, his fingers brushing a phantom lock of hair from his eyes.

John turned the screen so Sherlock could see the picture.

Sherlock looked at it for several long seconds. “Don’t post it on your blog. It’s too…” he trailed off.

“Human?”

Sherlock lifted his eyes to John’s. “Yes.” He dropped his gaze to the photo again, his voice uncertain. “I barely recognize myself.”

John’s mouth curved up. “I do. It’s just that you’ve taken off your armor.”

Sherlock smiled wryly. “Is that what you think my suits are — bespoke armor?”

“Don’t you?”

“Hm. Maybe.”

John absently turned the phone in his hands. “I like the human you. The one in his dressing gown that drinks tea with Mrs. Hudson. The one who talks back to the telly and leaves biscuit crumbs on the table. The one with messy hair on Saturday mornings.”

John didn’t dare look up, but could feel Sherlock’s eyes on him.

“I like the mornings when you make coffee,” Sherlock finally said. “It means you were up late, watching some terrible spy movie or working on your blog, typing that ridiculous way you do with two fingers… I like to wake up to that warm, toasty scent drifting into my room. It’s cozy.”

“It’s home,” John added, meeting Sherlock’s gaze. He slowly realized their knees were touching under the table, neither of them making an effort to shift away.

Something was happening, some half-confession passing between them, an avenue opening that had been obscured and hidden until now. The silence drew out longer, their hands on the table inching closer, until Sherlock suddenly spoke.

“My watch.” He touched his wrist. “I think left it in the changing room.”

“Oh.” John struggled to pull himself back into the present, disappointment filling him again, wondering if he’d just imagined the intimacy of moments ago. “You should go see if it’s there.”

Sherlock stood and looked at him intently. “I think you should come with me.”

John stared back blankly, then it dawned on him, the weighted possibility of what Sherlock was suggesting. John rose to his feet, his knees weak, his pulse beating faster.

They walked down the carpeted hallway and back toward the spa, every nerve in John’s body heightened. They turned into another hallway where the changing rooms were located, the area now dim and deserted. John watched Sherlock turn the knob on one of the doors, then disappear into the small cubicle. He followed, his heart pounding, the door clicking shut behind him.

He reached out blindly, touching Sherlock’s shoulder, then found himself tugged forward, their faces suddenly very close. They searched each other’s eyes in the low light, reading and evaluating and hoping.

“Oh, hell,” John muttered, throwing caution to the wind and covering Sherlock’s mouth in a breathless kiss. Sherlock’s lips were warm, softer than he’d imagined, tasting slightly sweet like apples. John drew back, his trembling fingers going to Sherlock’s jaw.

Their gazes met again, and John was relieved to see an answering gleam in Sherlock’s eyes, a mix of apprehension and wonder and want, the want soon rising to the fore. Sherlock ran his thumb across John’s cheekbone before he leaned down, brushing his lips over John’s.

This was happening, John thought hazily, it was real, Sherlock’s missing watch just an excuse to get them alone in private. He sighed, suddenly regretting that they’d wasted so much time apart. If only he’d recognized all the signs earlier…

“God,” John breathed between kisses, “I was blind, wasn’t I? You’ve been trying to let me know for ages.”

Sherlock shook his head, taking the blame. “My attempts were clumsy.”

“But I’ve seen you flirt dozens of times.”

“None of those mattered,” Sherlock murmured, nuzzling John’s bristly cheek.

John felt a little thrill at the thought that _he_ mattered to Sherlock, that _he_ could make him nervous and unsure. The knowledge emboldened him to capture Sherlock’s mouth again and slowly slip his tongue between his lips, drawing out a soft moan.

Happiness and horniness bubbled up in him as the kiss grew deeper and they staggered backwards, John pressing Sherlock against the full-length mirror. Sherlock groaned again as John sank his hips into him, rough denim against denim, an unmistakable hardness detectable beneath the thick cotton.

“Is that a watch in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?” John teased.

“Both,” Sherlock grinned against John’s mouth, sliding his hands under John’s  
jumper.

John shivered, marveling at the way Sherlock’s enormous hands easily spanned his back. He worked his palms under Sherlock’s wool jumper and thin T-shirt, finding skin, curving around his waist, slender and solid and hot to the touch.

Sherlock inhaled sharply at the contact, stirring John’s senses even more. Their hands and mouths roamed, the small space filling with the sounds of their heavy breathing and wet kisses.

John loved the way Sherlock melted into him, loved the way his eyelashes drifted shut when their lips met, loved the little sighs and moans they made together. Everything about Sherlock was so much more gentle than he’d imagined, his guard down, relaxed, nothing sharp or distant remaining.

It was as if they’d pulled a magic thread that was unraveling all of their defenses and hesitations and misunderstandings, exposing a new and fresh beginning, full of promise. It made John want to take things slowly, even though his body was primed to race ahead. He didn’t want to ruin this by rushing into anything.

It was Sherlock who made the bold suggestion. “Come back to my room,” he whispered near John’s ear.

John was surprised, needing a moment to respond. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

A series of images flitted through John’s mind — undressing each other, clothes heaped on the floor, hands smoothing over bare backs and arses, the almond scent of massage oil rising from their skin. They’d sink to the bed, their legs tangling, hungry mouths roving over necks and chests, across stomachs, down to thighs and cocks, faces beautifully contorted with pleasure.

“I’m sure too,” John whispered back, his voice rough with desire, silently thanking the universe for thieves and chalets and impromptu holidays, jeans and jumpers and the brilliant, gorgeous man finally wrapped in his arms.

 


End file.
